By the time Sunday morning rolled around, Andrew Carter was broiling. Oh, the mission had gone fine, and the camera factory was now disabled. But he couldn't get the conversations of the last few days out of his mind.
He was hoping Thanksgiving would just fade from mind when the mail arrived and blew that possibility out of the water. Klink liked to distribute mail on Sundays to get some peace and quiet in camp, and it usually worked. It was a nice pile this time, with something for everyone, and all the men were sharing details from home. Including lots of Thanksgiving greetings.
Davis opened an envelope and pulled out a pair of drawings by his 5-year-old son. One was picture of a pilgrim with a musket taking aim at a turkey. The other was a picture of an Indian with a bow and arrow taking aim at a Pilgrim.
He laughed as he passed it around, and someone said, "That just goes to show you, you can't turn your back on one of those dirty redskins."
Kinch, LeBeau and Newkirk looked at each other in alarm, and they were all thinking the same thing: There hadn't been a moment to talk to Carter about what they'd figured out last night—between the mission and rollcall and mail call, there hadn't been a break. Now the steam would be pouring out of his ears.
Carter was getting to his feet when Kinch spoke up. "Hey fellas, the four us need to meet down in the tunnel. Colonel Hogan asked us to take care of something."
Carter was unmoved and unmoving. "That's what they teach kids in school where you live, Davis?" He stood at the table, arms crossed, looking uncharacteristically irritated.
"I guess so. Jimmy's in Kindergarten," Davis said as he passed the pictures around with hardly a glance in Carter's direction. "I guess they got an early start on Thanksgiving so they could mail the letters overseas. Lots of kids in the class have dads in the Army."
"Not many others with POW dads, though, I'll bet," Mills chimed in. He hadn't picked up on what Carter had said.
"Yeah, well, that's bad teaching," Carter said indignantly. "Did you ever read Lincoln's original Thanksgiving proclamation? Because it had nothing to do with Indians or Natives or whatever you want to call us," Carter said.
"Us?" Addison asked.
"Them. I meant them," Carter replied. He just didn't feel like going into it. Not today. Maybe never. "He didn't talk about the story of Thanksgiving. He just talked about its meaning."
"What did he say, Carter?" That was Colonel Hogan. He was always alert to changes in mood and tone among his men, and had just stepped out of his office when he heard Carter sounding surprisingly combative. Hogan kept his own voice soft, but low and sonorous; he knew how to calm the room even as he commanded attention.
"He chastised Americans for being at war with one another. He said God was angry with us for fighting, but He was still merciful, and that that we should pray for peace and healing," Carter said with a determined look on his face. "He said to be grateful that even though a war was happening, laws were respected and obeyed, and that even though defense was soaking up our resources, we were still pretty prosperous. He said to be thankful for what we have, and to remember the widows and orphans and anyone who was suffering. That's what Thanksgiving is about."
"Gratitude," Colonel Hogan said.
"Gratitude," Carter repeated. "Not some hokey story to make people feel better that the Pilgrims and the first nation were buddies.
"But isn't that what Thanksgiving is based on, Carter?" Garlotti sounded truly curious. "The Pilgrims and the Indians at Plymouth Rock?"
"Sure, but that's a fairy tale. It didn't happen that way. Within a year of that big feast, which is baloney to begin with, Myles Standish was executing Indians and driving them away from their homes. They weren't friends," Carter said angrily.
"So you hate Thanksgiving?" Addison piped up. "Because it sure sounds like it."
"No," Carter said. "No." He was deliberately quieting himself, trying to modulate his voice. "I just don't like phony stories. Of course we should be grateful for our blessings. We should celebrate our ability to weather hardship. We just shouldn't do it at the expense of people who were simply defending their land. If you want to celebrate Thanksgiving, that's great, but for crying out loud, leave my people out of it."
"Your people?" Addison said. But Carter was on his way down the ladder to the tunnels now, and Kinch, Newkirk, LeBeau and Hogan were on his heels.
XXX
Down in the tunnel, alone with his teammates, Carter let his story tumble out. The words must have been bottled up and ready to explode, because they came spilling out in a torrent. By nature, Carter was a talkative guy, and his friends could see that holding things in for three days must have been brutal.
Yes, Carter said, he was part American Indian. And no, he didn't look it. And yeah, he knew that helped him sometimes. And no, he wasn't proud of feeling that way.
"My Grandpa was Lakota, and he was sent to the Carlisle Indian Industrial School in Pennsylvania," Carter said. "He was fourteen the year it opened, and the Great Sioux War had just ended two years before. Most of the first class of students were from our tribe. Don't get me wrong—he got a good education. But it was hard and sometimes it was humiliating. He knew he was being 'civilized' when they cut his hair and traded his moccasins for boots, and he hated that part. Eventually he went back home, and he married a white woman, and he was never really sure where he belonged after that."
"So you're one-quarter Lakota," Hogan said. "And the Lakota people are part of the Sioux?"
"Exactly, Sir," Carter said. "My ma always told me I was lucky I had blond hair, and never to forget that. Even though she loved my grandpa, she still said things like that. Nobody looks at me and sees an Indian, Colonel. I've got it easy, because a lot of people don't like us. But I know inside that it's part of my heritage. And I hate hearing my heritage twisted by people who don't know what the hell they're talking about. I'm proud of who I am."
"Hell" was the closest anyone had ever heard Carter come to swearing, and on a Sunday, no less. LeBeau and Newkirk looked stunned.
"The hell with anyone who doesn't understand," Hogan said. "It's their loss." LeBeau nodded fiercely.
"That's right, Carter," Kinch said. "We're proud of you for standing up for yourself, and for your history. I feel like I know something about that, too."
"I'll bet you do, Kinch," Carter said, a small smile crossing his lips for the first time in days.
Newkirk was biting his lip, trying to find the right words. "It's hard not knowing exactly where you belong. But you'll always belong with us, Andrew. We're your brothers."
Carter's face brightened at that, but he was thinking. These guys, with whom he lived and played and ate and worked with every day, were absolutely his brothers. They had each other's back, and that meant they could take risks and stand up for what was right, even when it was hard to do so.
"You're definitely my brothers, but not just that, fellas," Carter said with a smile. "You're my tribe."
LeBeau gulped and Newkirk sniffled as the five men closed their arms around one another in a fraternal embrace. Hogan ruffled Carter's hair and pulled him closer until Kinch tugged him back. They held on silently, just long enough to be sure everyone of them understood that together, they were unbeatable.
Notes: The Great Sioux War ended in 1877. The Carlisle Indian Industrial School opened on November 1, 1879, with 147 students, 84 of whom were Lakota.